Patrick leaned in close; close enough for his mephisto-like beard to brush my right hand. I was propping my head up, lazily watching the other side of the bar, and Patrick spoke right into my ear so I could hear over the tumultuous uproar of a Wednesday night crowd with nothing better to do than drink.

Patrick was a pseudo biker goth with neither a bike nor a desire to play White Wolf games. He'd been living in Boston for four or five years now, and he simply reaked of the city. His beard was long now, but carried no upper-lip support. It trailed along his cheeks and down from his chin into two twirlled spikes that stood down from his rounded jaw as a defiant stand against all that was southern eastern America.

"These kids, fuckin' just 21. They don't respect this poor woman. She's here all by herself trying to keep up with our ravenous demand for liquor, and all they can do is shout orders and leave 50 cent tips."

When Patrick and I were in grammar school together, Patrick's mother was a bartender, so he came by his feelings of animosity honestly. I agreed with him, despite my utter lack of bar-etiquette. I was tipping fairly well, I thought, but I'd also been demanding service in the form of a gently waving $20 bill.

"Take prep boy over there. He's grabbing 5 buds for his preppy ass friends, and he's probably not going to leave her a dime for her troubles. Just watch."

I did. The boy was fairly tall, probably 6'2" and wearing a white collared button down shirt. It was blue striped down to the waist, and made him look like a stock broker on a late lunch break. He was white, like everyone else in here, and he wore horn-rimmed glasses that sank down his nose, a testament to his innebriation.

In truth, the boy was probably a senior at some expensive college, majoring in business or economics or some other such important thing. He recieved his Budweisers, the only testament to his Eastern Shore upbringing, and distributed them to those around him.

"See? What'd I tell you? One fuckin' dollar. These little shits are the scum of the earth. Always have been. Some folks say you can judge a man by how he acts with a baby, a woman, and a flat tire. I'd add a bartender in there. If he gets good service and doesn't tip, he's a slimmy moose cock of a man."

I nodded in agreement. Patrick obliged my conciliatory movement by swigging his Long Island Iced Tea. I nursed my jack and ginger.

Patrick and I were definately knee deep in our twenties by now. As he had said earlier, the simple fact that we were annoyed by most teenagers, and that he'd become so insensed by a non-tipping recently 21 preppy would alert most casual observes to the fact

The bar was called Pepperjacks, and it stood tucked neatly between the Talbot County Chamber of Commerce, H&R Block, a work rehab center, and the local bowling alley. If you didn't know it was there, you'd never find it. There are no windows, there's a nondescript wooden sign that might as well be a billboard. The door is hidden by a trash can and simple wooden bench. Inside, things don't get much prettier. Ther bar is a solid square surrounded by obstructions. Even 1/4 full you have to squeeze by folks to get anywhere. There's a back room, but it's filled with pool tables and arcade games. And, as you should know, pool tables always equal fights.

But tonight, the crowd at Pepperjacks is much more mild mannered. It's a mix of local preps and out-of-towners home for the holidays. Most of the folks went to the Country School together; it's the only private school in town that's not religious. I myself am amazed I didn't go to the local Catholic school, since my father is so devout.

I hated The Country School. I was far down in the pecking order, and constantly made fun of by the other kids. From third grade on up I only ever had a few friends. Patrick was always one of them. Travis was too, and a much more reliable one at that.

Tonight, however, I'm happy to have graduated from that little slice of hell. It makes for some good conversations this far down the road. It also gives me some folks to buy me drinks.

I always insist that they tip.